


Confessions

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock finally confess their love for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> One of my favorite fics of mine. Important. If you like Johnlock, definitely hit this one up.

"Heh," John chuckled as he flipped through the morning’s paper. He was snug in his favorite chair with a cold cup of tea beside him on the small, wooden table. His morning robes had been freshly washed and it was a lazy Sunday, the early light streaming in through the windows of 221B Baker Street, creating a dazzling pattern on the vacuumed rugs that John’s slippered feet were now resting on.

He was clean and happy, his hair still damp from his long shower. 

John Watson was content.

His partner and best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was not. 

He was scrunched up on the couch, his back sore and his eyes tender. He’d been up all night, fidgeting over the simplest case. He swore to himself that he’d be able to solve it from his seat on the couch, and after John rolled his eyes and climbed up to his room without a single remark, Sherlock began frantically searching his mind palace for clues. 

The detective had been working so long that he didn’t even know how to categorize the case generally, let alone deduce it stylishly and quickly as he did the first day he met John, nearly two years previous.

What his flatmate was unaware of when he sulked off and left Sherlock to his own devices, was that Sherlock’s mind was in a completely different place than the case he claimed to spend his entire night on.

Mycroft, his older brother, had called him to meet for tea at his estate earlier in the week. Mycroft Holmes prodded at his brother’s last wit with something that Sherlock hadn’t been able to face. His brother’s words and accusations seeped into Sherlock’s shoulders, back, and neck which each strenuous memory. The worst of all of it was that Mycroft was undeniably correct and Sherlock had figured it out months previous, he was stubbornly, angrily, and completely in love with John.

Sherlock cracked his neck painfully as he sat typing, his mind racing over each line in Mycroft’s face as his lips curled around the words, “You have to tell him.”

The sound of that particular command was anything but soft. It wasn’t friendly, like a nudge in the right direction. It was direct and terrible. Mycroft had meant that if Sherlock stayed silent about his affections, John would move on.

Sherlock would lose John in every sense. He’d find a woman to love, get married, have children, and forget about his days chasing bad guys around London with a stuck up maniac. That thought alone caused Sherlock to ache. Mycroft’s words stung more when Sherlock delved deeper into the meaning and discovered that losing John wouldn’t only be having John create a new life, but having John leave his life.

John’s presence wouldn’t fill the flat with color and joy. John’s adventurous nature would be ripped away and Sherlock’s cases would become grey and dull. He wouldn’t hear John’s feet shuffle up the stairs when he returned at night and he wouldn’t hear them gallop down the stairs in the morning. He wouldn’t catch John chuckling at the comics like he did just then, he wouldn’t hear John hum in the shower, and he wouldn’t be able to taste John’s cooking, some of which dishes were better than others.

The form and shape of John Watson would leave the corners of Sherlock’s pale, sea green eyes and he’d always be darting his gaze up in search for it. 

Sherlock had forced himself not to cry when he thought of this reality, since caring wasn’t an advantage and love was just human error. It solved nothing.

The man who sat stiffly on the couch now had run every road. Every addiction, every suicide, and every loss had stabbed puncture wounds in Sherlock’s tangled life, and now his heart wrenched and contracted with the deep pains of unrequited love.

How many nights Sherlock had stayed awake deducing his feelings, he couldn’t count. How many times he’d planned to leave John, he didn’t want to count. Sherlock was a sad, broken man who held high tempers and an impassive countenance in order to protect whatever it was he had left for himself.

But John Watson brought happiness to Sherlock. John sassed him raw, chewed him out at every opportunity, and rejected any idea that they were even remotely a couple, but his worn face and sunken eyes shone a warmth that ignited Sherlock with ferocity, and it was nearly impossible for the cold man to look away. John had unlocked the chests that Sherlock had thrown so far down into himself that spending every waking moment with him wasn’t enough. Feeling his arm brush his as they walked wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to watch him eat Chinese food at two in the morning, nor was it enough to have John lock eyes with him as they spoke. It wasn’t enough to have John as a companion, and it certainly would never be enough to know that John felt completely platonic towards Sherlock. 

That’s what hurt the most.

There was nothing there, not a single drop of reciprocation from John. His many girlfriends and adamant denials made that agonizingly clear.

John Watson had broken down the walls of vanity that Sherlock so foolishly put up, he’d revealed the scared child behind them. He’d even shown Sherlock that sex should never be forced or used as manipulation, which is why Sherlock had avoided it completely for the better part of his adult life.

Even now, Sherlock was mentally slapping himself for dwelling too deeply on his own sorrows. He was a sap and he hated it.

But he didn’t hate John.

Mrs. Hudson’s flowery voice dragged Sherlock from his twisted palace and floated over to him like music.

"Morning, Sherlock. Where’s John?" She appeared in the doorway in a smooth satin shirt, the maroon fabric complimenting her lightly blushing cheeks and bright eyes. 

"Here I am!" John popped his head out from the bathroom, roughly wiping the washcloth from his face.

He nearly bounced his way over to the older woman and hugged her tightly before giving her a peck on the cheek.

"My, you’re in a splendid mood this morning!" Mrs. Hudson beamed at John, who beamed right back.

"Of course!" 

Sherlock slumped deeper into his straining back. Seeing John elated was so incredibly delightful and beautiful to Sherlock, and he selfishly wished that amusement would be directed at him. Caused by him, for once. Of course, when it came down to it, John’s future and happiness would always go before Sherlock’s. That’s why Sherlock never went into detail about his broken life, he knew that that sadness would be transferred into John, and he couldn’t bear that. 

Sherlock was oblivious to John’s wandering eyes, which landed on his pale, slender form.

"He looks horrible," Mrs. Hudson whispered to John as they both stared at the man, his nose scrunched grumpily. "You must’ve kept him up all night!"

John heated at her comment and opened his mouth to deny it, but she was gone and bouncing down the stairs before his first embarrassed breath left his damp lips.

Sherlock was silent, pretending that the sexual comment did little to phase him. 

The flat was tense as John stared at Sherlock incredulously. He hadn’t moved in hours, save for his fingers, which were gliding smoothly over the keys. Sherlock’s ticking mind was merciless as he tore himself down, deducing Mycroft’s sharp gaze and spat words for the nth time. 

"What is wrong with you?" John had meant to ask what the matter was, but his rising anger slipped through his words.

Sherlock raised his eyes at the sound of John’s voice, that stubborn tone could only mean the soldier was talking to him.

For the first time all morning, John and Sherlock locked eyes.

Sherlock’s grumbling stomach twisted. He hadn’t eaten, he’d been too distressed. 

He sounded like a schoolgirl, complaining to himself how a some boy would never love him back.

He berated himself as John looked at him. Sherlock realized he was meant to respond and did justly, “Nothing.”

John bickered with him, his jolly attitude from seconds earlier dropping like a bowling ball as the pigheaded detective snarked at him.

"Don’t lie to me, Sherlock." 

John’s voice was irresistibly sexy when he said Sherlock’s name.

Sherlock was so tempted to give in and say that he was tortured because Mycroft had placed the idea in his head that John would leave him if he didn’t confess, that even the slightest thought that John could love him back left Sherlock speechless and dreamy, that the way he was looking at him now made Sherlock want to wrap himself in the blanket of his forest green eyes and never look away. 

"Nothing."

John stamped his foot and tugged at his short hair with his fingers angrily. 

Sherlock was astounded how quickly John went from loving puppy to obdurate mule.

"I know Mycroft invited you for tea a few days ago, and I know that you always get cranky after you see your brother, but this is ridiculous."

John’s words seeped through Sherlock’s dark curls. Sherlock wasn’t cranky, that’s what babies were called. If anything, Sherlock was just adamant and ridiculous… not cranky.

John walked a few steps to his left before turning his weary eyes back to the man, “You’ve never hauled away for this long before. Something’s seriously the matter. Is it a case?”

If Sherlock knew any better, he’d confuse John’s anger for concern. That’s exactly what it was, but Sherlock was blind. 

Sherlock ran through his mind before answering. John was so happy before Mrs. Hudson, and they’d been sitting peacefully in the same room then. Now they were alone once more and John was tempestuous. “Yes,” Sherlock lied.

John groaned. “Fine. It’s a personal case you don’t need help on, Jesus, I get it. But would you at least try to rest now? You look horrid.”

John mothered Sherlock.

"No."

"Take a nap, Sherlock."

"No."

"Now."

"No."

They bickered like father and child, husband and wife, two thirteen year old girls. They fought like John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock wanted to nap. He wanted to slip into a comatose state where he’d forget everything that plagued him. John’s next words were unrelenting, and Sherlock had no choice but to agree to them.

"Sherlock, please rest. For me."

John stared down Sherlock, defeat flickering across his sharp face. Sherlock had to obey when John used himself as a reason.

Sherlock stood up painfully, his laptop slipping from his hands and falling softly on the couch where his bum had been. Said bum was numb, and Sherlock’s creaking knees and strained back carried him across the living room, past John (who smelled lovely), and into his room.

He flopped onto the bed with a thud and instantly closed his weary eyes, sure that they’d never open again due to their heaviness.

John let out a breath that went unheard by Sherlock as he drifted off into sleep.

John Watson dressed and went about his day, pleased that he’d gotten Sherlock to take care of himself. For once.

When he returned from shopping for groceries, eating lunch at his favorite cart, and strolling through the park until the sun set, he found Sherlock in the same position he’d left him in. Now with a puddle of drool by his mouth. 

John was tempted to poke his friend on the rear to wake him, but he knew that Sherlock needed the sleep more than ever to make up for the past week. He wasn’t sure what had gotten into Sherlock, more specifically, which of Mycroft’s words had gotten to Sherlock. John busied himself for a few hours with putting away the shopping and grooming himself, occasionally checking in on the sleepy lump that was once the stubborn Sherlock Holmes. It was dark and late by the time he popped in again, deciding to stay for more time than he’d usually allow himself. 

Sherlock’s room was a reflection of the man. Organized chaos. John leaned against the door, his shadow falling on Sherlock’s curled form. He smiled to himself as he heard the low hum of Sherlock’s breathing.

John was always worried about Sherlock, even though he knew that the genius could crawl out of any situation. He knew that Sherlock was too intelligent for his own good, and he was sure that by now, as John’s best friend, Sherlock would know to take care of himself. For John’s sake, if nothing else. 

The man frightened John to bits, but with that fear came intrigue. Sherlock was fascinating to John, from the curl of his lips when he made a joke to the widening of his eyes when John swore like a soldier. Sherlock’s pale skin and sharp nose were as regal as he was, and in John’s eyes, nobody would ever be as graceful or poised.

Of course, Sherlock’s snark and biting wit got on John’s last nerve, but the man was his flatmate and best friend, as he so often referred to him as, and no length of arguing would keep John from wanting to take care of Sherlock. He needed Sherlock rested and happy, seemed as though if Sherlock was happy, he was. Happy in his own way, John decided.

Sherlock’s smiles were rare, but John knew they were real when they came out of hiding. They were also quite beautiful.

John pondered that last thought as he sat on Sherlock’s bed, Sherlock’s hip inches from John’s thigh.

John was strangely attracted to Sherlock. He was a handsome man, that much was clear, but this attraction was more like an addiction. His personality was a flame and John was a moth.

John brushed it off as a petty crush the first day they’d met, seeing as Sherlock was “married to his work” and seemed to never have time to open up. John Watson let his thoughts wander as Sherlock gently awoke from the new pressure beside him. John liked women, was attracted to women, and had sex with women, but he also found himself finding men handsome, even fantasizing about them sexually. The idea of bisexuality wasn’t new to John, he’d been a soldier surrounded by fit men, after all, but he wasn’t comfortable labeling himself yet.

Labels were for food, not for people.

All John knew was that he cared deeply for the gorgeous man that was now squirming beside him, more than brotherly…

Sherlock rolled over, accidentally bumping into John as he did so.

His beautiful eyes shot open with the contact and his now tight, well rested eyes stuck directly on John’s face. 

"John?"

"See, don’t you feel better?" John smiled down at his friend, Sherlock’s sleepy breath catching in his throat at the face that was now grinning at him. He began to sit up, but his head pounded and he decided to stay down. Sherlock blinked stupidly, John’s wonderful body was on his bed, his bum included.

"What time is it?" Sherlock sputtered. Sleepy Sherlock was a lovely sight, and John wanted to keep him sloshed and slowed like this forever. 

"Almost nine."

"In the morning?" Sherlock rubbed his face, his eyelids now tight, all tenderness from the lack of sleep gone. He stretched out his limbs, a nearly orgasmic moan escaping his lips as he rolled his ankles. His silk pajamas slid low on his hips as he elongated his tall body, the light from the living room fluttering through the open bedroom door and landing on Sherlock’s popping toes.

John forced himself to disregard the sound Sherlock had just made, as well as the strip of firm skin that covered Sherlock’s hip bones.

"No, at night."

"What?" Sherlock didn’t open his eyes, the sound of John’s calming voice lulling him back into slumber.

"You slept all day."

"Did I really?" 

John nodded. He immensely enjoyed teasing Sherlock as he was post slumber, his biting wit and usual arsehole nature was calm and he was actually a reasonable person.

"Yes. …Sherlock," John took a chance, "What did Mycroft tell you?"

Sherlock Holmes chuckled darkly. He may have been high off an amazing nap, but he wasn’t about to relinquish that secret in his lazy state. He wasn’t going to confess like this.

"He’s a prick."

"I know, but what did he say?"

John had pushed too far. Nobody was allowed to call out Sherlock’s big brother. Only he could do that. Sherlock furrowed his brows and rolled to his side, now slightly upset with John.

"Go away."

John was taken back. He had upset Sherlock and now he’d never get the secret. He was more curious than was good for him, and he had a feeling this secret would explain much more than Sherlock let on.

"Fine," John stood up from the bed, the pressure leaving Sherlock feeling empty. John spoke, "But you know you can tell me anything. You’re my best friend, after all."

Sherlock flashed open his eyes that kept drooping. His heart began to race, the new rush of blood awakening him completely. He turned only his head towards the sound of John’s footsteps as he said, “Wha…?”

John popped back in the room. “You can tell me anything.”

"I’m your…"

John watched the turned profile of the man, it looked completely confused. He felt Sherlock’s presence more awake now, but he wanted to sit beside him once again. He took another chance, his own heart fluttering at the thought of another rare Sherlock-and-John-relationship-breakthough.

Sherlock barely mouthed the words, but John could hear the shock in his breath, “…best friend?”

The man looked stunned beyond belief. Nobody had taken the time or the energy to befriend Sherlock, let alone label him as the best of it. And it was John…

Sherlock’s room was silent as the tall man was shocked into a frozen state, his eyes straight a head, his body still curled and on its side. John furrowed his brow. He wondered how Sherlock could’ve gone two years without knowing that John considered him to be his best friend. He was in every sense. 

When Sherlock finally snapped out of his zone, John was calling to him softly.

"Sherlock… Sherlock, you’re scaring me."

"I’m your best friend?" He said again, to check if he’d heard right.

"Yes, of course you are."

Sherlock felt a huge rush of emotion for the man, more than he’d felt since discovering his romantic attachment to him. He felt as though maybe there was a chance that John would stay in his life, that he cared about him, that he loved him, even if just as a friend… a best friend.

Sherlock finally sat up, his head pounding with the thought that occurred to him. His mind was clear now, sharp, like a beautiful silver knife ready to slice through his doubts and fears. He calculated that this was as perfect time as any to confess to John. The mood was right, they weren’t arguing, he was well rested and aware now that John cared for him. The room was personal and his own, it was a peaceful night, and he had a tugging feeling in his stomach telling him to go for it. Mycroft was right, but not in the sense that John would leave him if he didn’t tell him, it was that John would most likely stay if he did tell him, and that meant Mycroft knew that John wouldn’t be put off by the confession, which meant he knew that John either felt the same or would accept Sherlock and live with him, knowing how he felt. 

John was eyeing Sherlock suspiciously, unaware that Sherlock was preparing to take the biggest leap of his life. He sensed it was important, so he just smiled pleasantly to show that whatever it was Sherlock was about to do, he wouldn’t have to do it alone.

And there it was. 

The final proof that now was the time, that look John was giving Sherlock. It was warm and comforting and supportive, as if this big deal for Sherlock wouldn’t be pushed away in disgust. Even if he didn’t feel the same, John would help him get through it, push past the words, finally free himself of his chains. 

Funny, Sherlock never even classified himself as anything, romantic or sexual, and yet here he was, sitting next to a beautiful man who cared about him, sucking in a tight breath, about to confess to feeling everything from friendship to passion to arousal for him. Only him.

"John," he began. He caught John’s eyes, they were pleading "Say something," while his lips were curling playfully.

Sherlock turned his body towards John’s. The men sat on the bed, facing each other, their bodies close and intimate. John turned his body in as well. They were now facing this head on, even if only one of them knew what was coming.

"I want to tell you what Mycroft told me."

"Sherlock, you don’t have to if you don’t want - "

The high strung, walled, broken man took another steady breath and looked at his hands before darting his eyes back to John’s nose and neck, “No, I want to talk now.”

"It’s been two years since I met you, or rather, since you came into my life. You have shown me the greatest compassion in dealing with my ridiculous ways. Only now did I realize that you cared for me as a close friend. I thought you were putting up with me so you could have a place to stay, a place to bring your dates…" Sherlock winced but continued anyway, forcing his words to stay intelligent. "It turns out you think of me as your best friend, something I never thought possible given my personality. I’m not all bad. In fact, I’ve been rather good ever since I met you."

John’s heart was racing, he clenched his fists tightly on his thighs as Sherlock laughed nervously. Intelligent words seemed to fail him as he got closer to those which he thought he’d never be able to say.

"I was addicted to a life that was unhealthy, and you make me want to be healthy. You make me want to smile at the same time as actually making me smile. You, John Watson. Are my best friend. I’m closeted, jealous, and controlling, and yet you still choose to take care of me. I like that very much about you."

Sherlock dug his fingernails into his legs, he’d just have to transition into that next ‘L’ word.

"I… have found myself feeling things about you, for you, things I never thought I’d ever be able to feel." His slight blush made John link sexual connotations to his words. It wasn’t that large jump from what he’d thought and dreamt the night previous, however.

"I seem to… have fallen for you."

Both men’s breath hitched, Sherlock was there, he just needed to -

"I’m in love with you, John."

The room hazed over, John’s shocked eyes the only thing tying Sherlock to Earth. The haze cleared as Sherlock watched John look down at his legs and say nothing, his face frozen, brows furrowed, mouth slightly agape.

Sherlock had just confessed his love to John. John didn’t know that Sherlock was capable of love. John didn’t know that Sherlock even cared for him.

As John stared at his right knee, images of the past two years flashed before him. Meeting Sherlock, feeling his stomach coil at the first sight of his beautiful face, the pain he’d felt as Sherlock said he was married to his work. The way his cane was left behind as he went chasing after the man. The first time they’d laughed. The first time they’d fought. The first time John ever took a shower in the flat. 

Random memories fluttered about his eyes like butterflies, and slowly, they all came together as one and shone so brightly that John saw everything.

John wanted to protect Sherlock, he wanted to heal him and take care of him, even though he was bloody terrified of him. He wanted to see Sherlock sleepy in the morning and drunk at night. He wanted to tell Sherlock about the war and watch his face contort as he finally spoke of the horrific images. John wanted to hear Sherlock’s gasps the first time they kissed, he wanted to feel his plump lips welcome him like no woman ever had. He wanted to curl up in Sherlock’s chest and never fade away. He wanted to stay there with him, for all time, opening up every new area, each shaky breath trembling off lips as they rocked together and were completely vulnerable. He wanted to stare at Sherlock’s strange beauty and know that it was all his, to look at, forever. John wanted to have the chance to push Sherlock into a pool as well as the chance to step in front of a bullet, just to know that Sherlock’s pale neck would stay rising and falling with breath. John wanted to punch Sherlock’s face out of anger that he’d never told him this sooner, before he’d messed with multiple girlfriends, but he also wanted to take that face in both of his hands and trace every line, every wrinkle, as if it were a map of the universe and each new line was a mark of their life together. He wanted to be the one to make Sherlock laugh with such force that he tumbled backwards. He wanted to lace his fingers through Sherlock’s and walk about town, hearing everyone’s gasps as they whispered “Called it” under their lungs. He wanted to dress Sherlock as they got ready for a fancy dinner, and he wanted to be the one to rip off his pressed shirt and taste the wine in his mouth. He wanted to make Sherlock proud. He wanted to be everything for Sherlock, from companion to confidant to lover. He wanted everything. He wanted Sherlock Holmes.

And Sherlock Holmes was calling to him.

"John…?"

"I want you."

Sherlock’s heart had gone from rapid beating to a balking completely. The cold sweat that had formed on his brow as John sat quietly was now heated with the blush that shot from his toes to his face to his groin.

"Wha..?" Sherlock asked for the second time that night, stupidly trembling before the loyal man.

"I want you. I want all of you." The words wouldn’t come out fast enough, and John sputtered, "I want to be there when you wake up and I want to see you dancing on the roof. I want to invite Mrs. Hudson over as we eat Chinese and I want to take all your scars and not only recognize them, but help you to keep them closed. I want you to know that I’ve been attracted to you unnaturally since the day I was told you needed a flatmate. I pushed it away because you said you were married to your work, and I’d believed it up until just now. If what you tell me is true, it’s not just a joke, if you really are in love with me, then I don’t sound foolish saying that I’ve been in love with you this whole time and never have seen it until just now. I want to be loyal and strong and adventurous with you, I want to fight with you and shout at you and work things out with you. I want to love you, and I do. If you love me, Sherlock. Tell me again. Because I am so hopelessly in love with you that I can’t bear it."

Sherlock’s eyes were welling with tears and he smiled, crinkling the corners of his face and causing them to slip down his face.

"I love you, John Watson."

"Good. I love you too, Sherlock Holmes. Now go get clean, you stink." John’s cheeks tugged at his lips, causing them to flatten into a happy curve, his eyes filling with sparks, the deep green taking in the beautiful form that was all his.

Sherlock grinned like a fool.

Take that, Mycroft.


End file.
